The Art of Hazing the Newbie
“We don't like Lionel Trilling / we decide, we like
Don Allen we don't like / Henry James so much
we like Herman Melville.” —Frank O’Hara
The division of angels contorts to
nestedness. It’s bitchbrunch bureaucracy.
Lazy Susan chronicles those who speak
pie-sweet from those sugar-starved. The men swab
the deck, self-titled as the “Wolf Pack” (vom).
This is subtle: casual slip of the name
from shared memory. Highly curated, we
vocal fry, bond over Terrible Twos.
To the frat party, we wear lavender
velvet & ripped jeans. It’s late-stage friendship;
confirmed by acrylic-nailed quid pro quo.
Coercion is our love language. De-thorned
the cruelest one not to disrupt solar
system’s feng shui, the space of hierarchy—
word from Greek hieros (“sacred”) and archein
(“rule” or “order”). Well look at you, little
miss Merriam Webster! says the one Queen
Victoria-hued, one delegating
bottom feeders carry forth unpleasant
tricks. It’s hell night; so I go all maggot
& pollywog & tar & feather &
7.62 millimeter full. metal. jacket.
with Kubrick stare tilted ladylike: what
are you willing to do for sisterhood?
Paddle us fused. Make us footstools. Pledge us
to pick the mint leaf from the shellback’s teeth.
Like that—new alliances form. Tonight,
Jupiter & Venus will share cosmic
soft porn. I watch for collision in awe,
only here for cucumber sandwiches.